


Accident

by Nival_Vixen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Complete, Derek Likes Stiles, Horny Stiles Stilinski, I Blame Tumblr, M/M, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Sexting, Stiles Likes Derek, Werewolf Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1322119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nival_Vixen/pseuds/Nival_Vixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek accidentally sends a shirtless photo to Stiles instead of his computer.</p>
<p>Stiles doesn't mind at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accident

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Accident (Traducción)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6291304) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)



> Based on [this Tumblr post](http://nivalvixen.tumblr.com/post/79755015766/mysnarkyself-teen-wolf-au-sterek-au-derek)

Stiles is off at college and he's desperate for some news about Beacon Hills that doesn't involve the latest update of who's been caught making out with who that his dad thinks is funny (it's seriously not; although, Danny hooking up with someone new was definitely news), so he texts Scott. Then Allison, and Lydia. Heck, even Kira gets a text from him, but they're all busy doing their own things, and they know about as much as he does. So he bites the bullet and texts Derek because he stayed back to protect Beacon Hills, so he should know something, right?

 

He doesn't want to come across all weird and obsessive, so he puts aside his worry, tries not to chew on his fingernail and quickly taps out a message. _Hi. How are things in BH?_

 

Stiles is surprised when his phone beeps a second later; he hasn't even had a chance to put the phone down yet, and his eyes widen behind his thick rimmed glasses as he sees the photo that Derek's sent him. _A shirtless photo. Of Derek. With no shirt on. Holy fuck_.

 

He sits up a little straighter, trying to tell himself that popping a boner right now would be disastrous on so many fucking levels. Stiles doesn't get a chance to reply (he's not even sure he could type a simple sentence right now, blood is travelling south and _fast_ ) and there's another three messages from Derek.

 

_OMG OMG OMG_

 

_I'm sorry._

 

_I wanted to send it to my notebook not you._

 

Well, Stiles has to say that the last one's a bit of a mood killer, but he's still not sure how he should reply. _Make a joke of it? Pretend he never received it in the first place? Keep drooling in his head until it spills over and destroys his phone completely?_

 

He gets up from the student lounge area and leaves the room as fast as he possibly can while trying to make it seem like he's not in a rush to get anywhere. Either his tactic works really well or no one actually gives a shit that he's leaving, because no one looks up from their laptops, conversations, or whatever else it is that they're doing. Stiles makes it back to his dorm room, and it seems that the fresh air's helped restore some blood back to his brainspace, because Stiles Jr. isn't quite as problematic as he could've been.

 

In fact, now that he's thinking properly again, Stiles has to wonder who was Derek going to send the picture to, if it wasn't meant for him? (Say goodbye to Stiles Jr.) He decides not to reply to the texts at all, but can't bring himself to delete the photo. He will delete it, just... not yet. He collapses on his bed with a heavy sigh, pulling his beanie and glasses off, and stares at the somewhat blurry photo and messages until he falls asleep.

 

Stiles is woken less than an hour later by his phone ringing very damn loudly in his ear. He curses, sitting up and flailing about, his phone flying off to the floor. He leans over the edge of the bed, picks the phone up and answers it without looking at the screen.

 

"What?"

 

"Uh, hi Stiles."

 

Stiles almost falls off the bed on hearing Derek's voice, and he immediately remembers what happened that afternoon. His face is bright red and he opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, trying and failing to talk.

 

Derek sighs softly. "I'll understand if you hate me; I really didn't mean to send that to you though. It was an accident, honest."

 

"Who?" Stiles finally manages to get out.

 

"What?" Derek asks, his confusion clear even through the phone.

 

"Who was it for?" Stiles expounds, needing to know even though he really doesn't want to know.

 

"Oh. Uh, myself, actually... I know it sounds weird, but I actually like the way I look right now, and I've needed some motivation to get to the gym lately. My body hasn't always looked like this," Derek admits with a brief laugh.

 

"You've always looked like that to me," Stiles says, face flushing even brighter still, and fuck, this is so **not** the way he thought this sort of admission would go.

 

_Shit, can Derek hear his heartbeat through the phone?_

 

Derek seems surprised. "You mean you don't hate me?"

 

Stiles has to laugh at that. "Hate you? Fuck no, I wish you'd send more photos like that," he says before he actually thinks it through.

 

Derek's silent for the whole of one second on the other end, and Stiles suddenly can't handle the rejection. A whole 'look, you're great, but...' just isn't going to be in the cards for him, not today. He won't let it get that far.

 

"Fuck _fuck_ **fuck** ," Stiles breathes out, and promptly hangs up.

 

So, it's obvious that he has a serious problem with the whole 'thinking before letting words fall out of his mouth' thing. Stiles wonders if there's a self-help section on that sort of thing at the local bookstore. He ignores Derek's call a few minutes later, burying his head under his pillow and switching his phone to silent so he can really get on with his self pity and wallowing.

 

...

 

Scott texts him almost an hour later (and four phone calls from Derek that have all gone unanswered) but he doesn't reply. Then Allison texts, and Lydia, and Kira, and Stiles wonders where they all were hours ago - this whole mess could've been avoided entirely!

 

_Maybe his dad can come up to his college for the holidays; it's not like Beacon Hills is the be all and end all of holiday destinations_. Less chance of running into Derek and making things even more awkward than they already are. So long as his father doesn't ask any questions, Stiles thinks it could work out. Then he laughs bitterly, because when _doesn't_ his father ask questions?! _Oh, he's so screwed_.

 

His phone goes off again, and he lifts it listlessly to see who could possibly be texting him again. Scott's already tried three times, Allison's tried to ask what's wrong (as if she doesn't know, as if Derek - or Scott - hasn't told her already), Lydia's text warped from concern to threats (no surprise there), and even Kira's text portrayed innocent confusion though he could see through that easily enough. This text isn't from any of them though, and Stiles frowns, reaching over to slip his glasses on so he can see the actual text properly. Derek, again.

 

_Since you seem to be avoiding my phone calls and texts, maybe you'll reply to this_... _I want to talk about this, dammit, Stiles._

 

Stiles scoffs and goes to roll over again. _More like laugh at him and hold it over him for the rest of his days_.

 

Another text arrives before he can complete his body roll, the phone vibrating in his hand, and Stiles almost flings it away in a knee jerk reaction but catches himself in time. He's glad he did, because the picture on his screen actually includes Derek's face, and Stiles _knows_ how much he hates taking photos of himself. Derek's shirtless again, looking a little embarrassed and self-conscious, and yet somehow, he also comes across as worried and a tiny bit angry.

 

_Will you reply to me now? Please, Stiles._

 

It's the _please_ that does it, sitting there on his screen so innocently, and he finally unlocks his phone to at least reply to Derek's texts (he knows that he wouldn't be able to handle talking right now; Stiles Jr. is awake again). Then, in a moment of pure madness, hormone-fuelled desperation, and a large chunk of sarcasm, Stiles rips his shirt off, takes a selfie and hits send before he thinks about it too much.

 

_You didn't say what kind of reply you wanted_ , he adds.

 

He doesn't get a reply for five whole minutes, and Stiles is contemplating just which floor he'd need to jump off of his dorm building to break an arm and get so many drugs that he would forget about this completely. He doesn't want to die (there'd be no one to look after his dad. Or Scott, for that matter), but maybe the third floor would be good for an arm or leg or something? Then again, heights, so no.

 

Another text message arrives, and Stiles closes his eyes, hoping like absolute hell that it's not Lydia texting him to say how disappointed she is or something because that would truly and utterly _suck_. He faces the phone screen towards him and opens his eyes. Two messages from Derek. _Thank fuck_.

 

_I guess you're right about that. We'll talk later then_.

 

Another shirtless picture is included, but this time Derek looks a little more relaxed, not quite so much embarrassment there (though the tips of his ears are a delightful pink colour and Stiles wants to bite his ears, which he's never really thought of as erotic before, but he can definitely see the appeal now). Stiles breathes a sigh of relief when it seems like Derek doesn't hate him with the fire of a thousand suns, and after checking that the door's locked (his roommate won't be back until the next day, some family visit, thank god for that), he settles back on his bed and loosens his pants, gently freeing Stiles Jr. from the constraints of his briefs.

 

_Sounds like a good idea to me_.

 

Stiles bites his lip and looks up at the camera, one hand splayed across his stomach. He doesn't realise that the tip of his cock is showing in the picture until after he's sent it ( _shit, it looks like he's about to start hitting it off!_ ), and Stiles curses softly at his own ineptitude. But that doesn't stop him picturing Derek's response though, and he lets his hand wander further down his stomach to caress and stroke his cock until he's hard.

 

A text comes through, the phone vibrating on his stomach and sending delicious waves down to his cock, and Stiles groans at the sensation, wishing it would last longer. But the thought of Derek sending another text or picture is too hard to resist, and he looks at his phone again, his free hand still stroking lazily.

 

_Fuck, Stiles! You have no idea what that does to me_.

 

The picture's actually a bit blurry, as if it was taken in a hurry, and there's a crazy amount of lens glare, but Stiles can still make out Derek's blush and his two front teeth are visible. It takes him a minute to realise that the lens glare is actually due to Derek wolfing out. Holy fuck; he actually made him wolf out! And it wasn't even a proper photo or anything!

 

Stiles sets his phone down to get his lube and tissues out, because this moment shouldn't be reduced down to saliva and a dirty shirt. He's almost humming with joy as he tries to decide on his next photo. (Before deciding, he sends a text to Scott to tell him he's fine and just fell asleep, no biggie, and to tell the others to leave him alone now. There's no fucking way he wants the next hour interrupted by anyone that isn't Derek.)

 

There's a small amount of manoeuvring to hold the camera for the next shot and he sends off a photo of his bare chest and his hand down his pants, his cock hard and just visible over his long fingers and firm grip. He kind of likes that photo, and has to admit that he doesn't look too bad himself, really. He's just starting to get into the swing of things, his hand and cock lubed up to the point where he's almost sliding out of his own grip (it's messy, but it feels fucking fantastic, especially when he imagines that it's Derek's mouth instead of his hand), and he receives another message.

 

Just a photo this time, and _holy fuck, that's Derek's dick_. _He's fucking huge_ , Stiles thinks, his jaw hanging open. He doesn't have penis envy (he's got a nice sized cock, and while it's not _Derek-fucking-Hale_ huge, it's always been fine for him for these past twenty odd years), but Stiles' mouth actually starts watering as he focuses on the photo and tries to imagine Derek's dick in his hand, in his mouth, in his ass (fuck, he's going to come if he thinks about that one for too long). He takes a photo of himself the best he can, lubed up and one handed as he is, and sends it without even looking.

 

He's rubbing the pad of his thumb along the slit of his cock, his whole body shuddering in pleasure, and he's close, so fucking close, and he has his eyes closed because he's pretty sure the image of Derek's dick is imprinted in his brain now. Stiles tries to slow down, to make this last for as long as possible, and it doesn't look like he'll be able to do anything like that until his phone actually rings. He stops quickly, a guilty reaction from his younger days, like he's been caught with his pants around his ankles (they're actually across the room, at least he thinks they are). Then Stiles sees that it's Derek calling and he answers quickly, his voice little more than a moan of desire.

 

"Hi, Derek."

 

" _Fuck, Stiles_. I can't take any more pictures, it's not turning out with anything but light. Do you have _any_ idea what you're doing to me here?" Derek's voice sounds strangled, like he's barely holding on to his humanity, and Stiles can't help but grin.

 

"Probably the same as what you're doing to me here," he replies, his voice rougher ( _and yeah, Stiles can admit he sounds sexier; hot damn!_ ) than intended.

 

It seems to do something to Derek because there's a loud groan on the other end of the phone, and a sound of wet skin on skin that's definitely not coming from Stiles' side. Oh fuck, they're really doing this. He's actually made Mr. Sourwolf himself feel something, and that something is **_horny_**. He's a bit proud of this, really. Stiles tries to think of something to say, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, but he's kind of lost to his own hand at that moment, and he can do little more than sigh.

 

"I'd fucking love to be there, bending you over that desk of yours and fucking you until you screamed my name."

 

Stiles doubts the desk would be able to hold his weight, but he's too far gone to care or mention it. Instead, he makes a noise of agreement, listening raptly as _Derek freaking Hale_ talks dirty in his ear.

 

"I'd spend hours prepping you so you could take my cock, and you'd be begging me before we even started. Have you fingered your own ass, Stiles?"

 

"Y-yes," he manages to say, swallowing hard.

 

Derek's voice is on another level entirely, and it's gotta be directly connected to his cock or something, because Stiles is pretty sure that Derek could start reading off his shopping list right now and he'd _still_ come.

 

"Mmm, I'll bet you have. Always been curious, haven't you, Stiles? So how many fingers?" Derek asks, and the way he poses the question makes Stiles think that Derek's planning on fingering himself right there on the phone.

 

_Fuck, that's hot_. He licks his lips and tries to control his breathing so he doesn't sound ridiculous.

 

"Two. I've got a couple of toys, too," he adds quickly. "Not as big as you, but... I..."

 

"Mmm?" Derek prompts when Stiles has to stop because the phone's slipping, for fuck's sakes.

 

"I like to imagine it's you inside of me," Stiles admits when the phone's back at his ear, his breath coming out as soft moans as the thought pops in his head, but this time he knows what Derek's dick looks like and it's so much better. "You still there?"

 

Derek agrees with a small grunt of noise. "Thinking about you under me."

 

"Fuck, that'd be so good, Derek. Wish you were here, then I'd be hitting it off with you instead of my hand."

 

"Oh, I don't know. I like the idea of you masturbating for me," Derek says and fucking chuckles, and Stiles is so _gone_.

 

"You too; you'd do the same for me, yeah?" Stiles asks, eyes closed as he imagines this scenario, Derek standing before him, watching Stiles watching him as he fists his dick slowly. He'd drag out that sort of torture until he tried to jump him, Stiles knows he would.

 

"You wouldn't be allowed to touch, not while I'm jerking off in front of you. Think you'd be able to hold yourself back for me, Stiles? You'd be able to wait until I tell you that you can touch me?"

 

"No, probably not," he replies honestly, biting at his lip as his hand movements start to get a bit more intense. "You'd have to tie me up to keep me from touching you," Stiles adds, a little hesitantly because they haven't exactly discussed anything, and this phone call itself could just be a one time thing, but fucking hell, he hopes not.

 

"Could use one of your suit ties for something like that, couldn't I?" Derek murmurs, and Stiles back actually arches off the bed in response.

 

"Yes- _fuck yes_ -fuck," he groans, working frantically to get relief.

 

"Stiles, wait," Derek commands, and there's his voice-cock connection thing again, because Stiles does exactly as he says and stops, even though he could practically _taste_ his orgasm it was that fucking close.

 

" _Derek_ ," he whines, his pride thrown away a long time ago.

 

"Mmm?" (Stiles can hear him smiling, he swears he can.)

 

"Please, Derek," Stiles begs, his cock twitching in his still palm.

 

"Please what?" (Derek's either close to laughing or coming; _maybe both_ , Stiles thinks.)

 

"Please let me come, _please_."

 

Derek waits, and Stiles is in desperate need of relief. He almost starts stroking again, but then stops. Somehow, Derek will know, and he has no idea if this is a test or something, but he's suddenly desperate to pass it.

 

"All right, Stiles. Come for me," Derek says, his voice sounding similar to his Alpha one, and that's all it takes for Stiles.

 

He barely finishes two strokes before he's coming everywhere, and he swears he's never shot off this fucking hard or so much before. Stiles drops back onto his bed, sweating and swearing and feeling as though he's fifteen again and only just found out what he can do with his cock. _Fucking hell_...

 

"Stiles? You still alive over there?" Derek's voice sounds concerned, and Stiles lifts his phone to see that his screen's gone dark, which means he's been out of it for a good three minutes at least.

 

"Yeah, alive. Barely. Did you come yet?" Stiles asks, his chest heaving as he tries to come down from wherever it was Derek took him.

 

Derek chuckles at that question. "Came soon after you did. I'm surprised you didn't hear me, I think I scared off all of the wildlife outside."

 

Stiles snorts at that. "Yeah, that wouldn't surprise me. You totally sounded Alpha then; is that a byproduct of you being all dom on me? Not that I didn't love every second of it, but next time warn a guy before you cockblock him with your voice."

 

"Yeah, I did get a little carried away."

 

"Hey, I'm not complaining about it at all. Get carried away as much as you like, but, uh... only with me, yeah?" Stiles can't be as worked up about saying this as he might usually be; he's still on cloud nine and feeling too boneless to worry as much.

 

"Yeah, if you want. I mean, I know you're in college, so I don't want to restrict you," Derek says, seeming more worried than Stiles.

 

He cuts him off abruptly. "After that, Derek, even my own fantasies in my head are dull and boring. I'm not going to want anyone here, or anyone anywhere else; just you."

 

"Pretty sure that's your orgasm talking, Stiles, but thanks for the ego boost. We'll talk about it in the morning, okay?" Derek offers, yawning widely.

 

Stiles is a bit annoyed that Derek doesn't believe what he's saying, but he's exhausted as well, and agrees sleepily. He thanks Derek, mumbling a muffled goodnight as he hangs up and promptly falls asleep face-first on his pillow.

 

...

 

Waking up wasn't the most pleasant experience of Stiles' life, but it's not the first time dry cum and sticky sheets have been a morning feature. He strips the sheets off and stumbles off to the bathroom to have a shower before he even dares to think about _anything_.

 

Coffee is required, and soon he's nursing a large mug, watching as his glasses get misty with the steam from his drink, his beanie covering his hair (it's too long, he knows it is, but he can't be bothered cutting it, so the beanie will suffice for now). Stiles checks the time three times in less than two minutes, waiting and willing for Derek to text him. Now that he can function properly, there's no fucking way Stiles will be able to think about anything other than Derek until this is all sorted.

 

There's still no message half an hour later, and Stiles tries texting him, but Derek doesn't reply, and then he doesn't pick up when he calls half an hour after that. He's going to come off as a weird creeper for this, but he can't bring himself to care, and Stiles leaves the college building to get to his car. His morning class will be taped, and the world won't end if he misses his afternoon class for whatever reason either (Stiles really hopes it's a good and sex-filled reason).

 

The drive to Beacon Hills takes about two hours on a good day, but this is mid-morning and most of the traffic's already dispersed, so Stiles is pulling into Beacon Hills within an hour and a half. He drives to Derek's loft, hoping he's there because this is going to be the dumbest thing he's ever done if Derek's not even _there_. But at least Derek will never know, right? Even if his scent's suddenly all over the place. _Oh god, this is the dumbest thing he's ever done_.

 

Stiles knocks on Derek's door anyway; he's come this far and he can't back out now. Even if he's really hoping that Derek's not home. He rings him again, just in case, and can hear his phone ringing inside the loft. But Derek's not answering his door, and the phone rings out. _Fucking hell, was it possible for werewolves to get concussion after phone sex? What if he was dying in there with no one to help him?_ Stiles is on the verge of getting hysterical when the door opens abruptly and Derek glares out into the hallway, a pair of sweatpants hugging his hips. Stiles mental process stops right then and there, because he's almost 100% sure that Derek's not wearing anything under those pants.

 

"Stiles? What are you doing here?" Derek asks, frowning in confusion.

 

He actually pinches himself to see if he's awake, and that's just the cutest thing Stiles has seen in months.

 

"Today's Monday, right? Don't you have class?"

 

"Uh, kind of skipped it. Don't worry, it's being recorded by the lecturer. I wanted to talk to you, and since you weren't answering your phone, I decided to drive here instead."

 

"Seriously?"

 

Stiles raises his eyebrow and indicates to his own body. "What, me standing here doesn't mean anything?"

 

"Of course it does; it means your dad's going to kill me when he finds out you skipped class to come see me."

 

Stiles lets out a small growl of frustration because this isn't the way it was supposed to go, damn it. He moves forward until he's in Derek's personal space (hey, Derek started it first all of those years ago in his room), and he kisses Derek, pouring his frustration, his lust, and every other emotion he can't hope to name right then and there into his kiss. Derek actually steps back, but his arms are on Stiles' waist, so they're both moving back really, and then the door closes behind Stiles loudly.

 

He doesn't even have time to let out a yelp of surprise before Derek's backed him up against the door, pulling him close until their hips are flush up against one another. Stiles is all hands and lips, touching and kissing everything he can put his fingers and mouth on (he's been dying to trace that tattoo with his tongue for years, and he promises himself that he will before he leaves today), and then his hands slip into Derek's pants and Stiles grins because he was **so** right; Derek's not wearing a stitch under the sweatpants.

 

"Thought you came to talk?" Derek breathes as he pulls away.

 

"We'll talk later. I've found a better use for my mouth right now," Stiles replies, dropping to his knees and grinning up at him.

 

Derek thinks he might get addicted to the look of Stiles on his knees, beanie back on his head, and eyes wide through his glasses. He swallows and agrees with a nod, thinking back to what they'd done on the phone late last night. After hanging up from Stiles, Derek had jerked off until the early hours of the morning to the pictures Stiles had sent him, the way he'd sounded on the phone, and just memories of him licking his lips, looking at him, being around him and being unintentionally sexy. After a few more mind blowing orgasms (one of the perks of being a werewolf), Derek had collapsed in a heap to sleep it all off (the perk could also be a curse, because it could be hours before he was completely satisfied and there weren't many people that could keep up with a wolf's stamina), only to wake up less than three hours later to the sound of Stiles knocking on his door.

 

For all of his fantasies and imagination (he's got more than most would presume he has, including Stiles), Derek finds that in this case, reality is so much better. He's still tired from his interrupted sleep, and within half an hour of Stiles' mouth sucking and licking and just generally ruining him for anyone else, Derek is coming in his mouth, and coming undone.

 

He leans against the door, shoulders heaving as he tries to catch his breath, tries not to fall on Stiles, and tries not to fall asleep on Stiles all at the same time. Stiles realises that he's exhausted, and leads him over to the bedroom, tucking Derek into the bed gently before moving and shifting himself so that he's tucked in against the curve of Derek's chest. He's too tired to even make a joke about Stiles being the little spoon, and just settles in to sleep once more. They'll be able to talk when they're both awake again.

 

In a matter of minutes, the loft is filled with the sound of Stiles' gentle snores, and Derek buries his head against Stiles' shoulder as he settles down to sleep as well. He can't help but feel glad that he accidentally sent the shirtless photo to Stiles; this is more than he could have ever hoped for.

 

...

 

The end.

Thanks for reading!

 


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